


Three Stranded Cords

by Anonymous



Category: Exalted
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Court of Serenity, F/M, First Time, Fluffy, I dunno how to write naughty stuff be gentle, Lina delights in educating him, Not Beta Read, Pyr is a monk ok he was expected to be celibate until this, Sweet, Vanilla, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 03:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15064208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The wedding of an Immaculate Monk is so rare as to be the stuff of legend. Pyr is being forced into his. It's... a lot more fun than he expected.





	Three Stranded Cords

It was a V’neef wedding, and that meant wine. Wine—and its fortified cousins like port and sherry—flowed like the Imperial River. On a cloud of drunken vapor, lewd encouragement, and crude jokes, Pyrrhus  fled up the stairs and escaped into the first room of the suite prepared for him. And his wife.

His wife!

A more absurd chain of events to get here he couldn’t imagine. An Immaculate Monk marrying was so rare as to be the stuff of folk tales and legends, not a current event. But V’neef had decreed, and so, as usual, V’neef got her way.  He would have politely and firmly refused and continued to refuse, but she’d held his dishonorable Exaltation as a blade to his throat. His plans were not so sufficiently advanced that he could ignore the threat, so here he was...

Married.

He slumped back against the solid oak, taking a moment to close his eyes and attempt to clear the heavy alcohol buzz from his thoughts. Tomorrow would be just as long a day as today was; the Family was packing him up and sending him to the estate in Juche for an extended stay. And there were many important conversations he’d need to have with... her... soon; above all he wanted a clear head for those.

The door into the bedroom of the suite slowly creaked open. Pyrrhus hurriedly straightened, brushing off the front of his wedding finery. “I’m sorry if I woke you, Lady Ang—”

Iselsi Araceli Angelline, his bride whom he’d met for the first time a little over twelve hours ago as they stood before the altar and exchanged vows, appeared in the doorway. She wore her white hair, a robe so fine it might as well be mist, and nothing else. Candlelight from the room beyond flickered, shining through the thin fabric and highlighting her curves.

Pyrrhus felt the rest of his words drop out of his mind and plop on the floor, presumably to crawl away in mortification. The blood he’d felt so clearly pounding in his temples a moment ago fled elsewhere, and as he shifted his weight discreetly he was very glad of the loose cut of the formal robes.

“Wake me? I was waiting for you.” She cocked an eyebrow. Her voice was very quiet; he could almost mistake it for shyness. But there was a certain amount of ice in her eyes and stiffening her spine that hinted at strength. He’d had glimpses of it earlier today, but it seemed to have intensified now the crowds were gone. Now that their families were gone. She was often underestimated, he guessed. “You were a while gone.”

“Ah. Well.” He swallowed, took a deep breath through the nose. “I didn’t want to disturb you. It was a long day today, and a longer one tomorrow, I thought you might like the rest.”

She pushed the door open wider and stared at him wide-eyed. “Lightbringer, did you think _sleep_ was what one did on their wedding night?”

“No.” He started forward, edging past her as if she were a cliff he would break on. “I’ll just get a blanket, and... there’s... I’d like to speak with you—properly. But in the morning.”

Angelline shut the door behind him, blocking it with her body. “If we must talk, then we may talk now. Your grandmother had some forceful things to say to me after this marriage was arranged, and honestly I am more afraid of her than I am of you.”

_I hope that remains true._ He had already folded a blanket over his arm and turned to regard her. She was three or four hands shorter than he was, and maybe seven or eight stone lighter—he didn’t doubt his ability to move her. But it would not have been polite. “Mmhm. She doesn’t stop until she’s gotten what she wants.”

“And what she wants... is a great-grandchild.” Angelline combed a hand through her hair, pulling it back over her shoulder. The movement emphasized her bare breasts, which was perhaps her intention; Pyrrhus glanced away quickly before the flush heating his face became visible and wordlessly offered her the blanket to cover herself with. She took it, puzzled, and tossed it off to one side to land in a heap on the marble floor.

Pyrrhus exhaled strongly through his nose.

Angelline eyed him. “...Have you not... I know you are in the Order, but before...?”

“No,” Pyrrhus replied, deliberately placid, concentrating on keeping his gaze somewhere other than her bare chest. “Nor.... no. I haven’t.”

“Oh—I apologize. Is it that you prefer men? I can arrange—”

“No! No, I—” He swallowed, holding up a hand, and cleared his throat to cover how flustered he felt. “I prefer women just fine. This... er... you wouldn’t be so distracting if I didn’t.”

“Where were you raised?” The incredulity in her wind-soft voice was impossible to mistake. “Some prudish satrapy? Certainly a Dynast could have his pick of the servant and slave girls!”

“Ah, no. I was raised here. In this house and these rooms, to be precise.” He shook his head to forestall further questions on the subject. Thankfully there were no longer any reminders of his Dynastic boyhood here; the rooms had been stripped bare and completely refurbished. “The proper opportunity never arose. And I was not then, nor am, inclined to coerce a mortal girl in such a fashion.”

Angelline gave a little sound of incredulity and swiped a hand through the air, wiping away his explanation. “You are son of a Great House and handsome enough. I’m sure coercion was never an issue. You had peasants throwing themselves at you, didn’t you?”

Pyrrhus’ mind abruptly gifted him with an image from a different lifetime: his fourteen year-old self, an isolated outbuilding on the estate, a moment of privacy… and a too helpful servant girl who’d followed him in. He choked on the memory and turned away so she wouldn’t see the chagrin he was sure was written on his face. “That doesn't make it right. I would not—did not—take improper advantage—”

Angelline’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline. She walked over to the bed and sat down, patting the space beside her expectantly. “Well then. That’s... very different. What other revelations did you have?”

“It’s... about that. The difference.” He shrugged off the heavy outer formal robe and laid it carefully over a nearby chair, stalling to gather his thoughts through the slowly lifting wine haze. “I... I don’t like the way our culture acts. The way we treat each other, treat our partners, our children, our servants. I don’t think it works. So... I’ve made a conscious effort to be different. I’m... experimenting. If you like. I want to improve lives, not waste them.”

Pyrrhus moved, sat down slowly on the bed beside her, a respectful distance away. Her attention, her posture, had changed, and it was clear she was listening intently. “I have taken vows—not monk vows—just... personal ones. One of them is to never speak a lie. I know—as an arranged marriage, as something neither of us would have likely chosen—well... I’d like there to be honesty between us. Respect, at least—which perhaps has room for some secrets... but not for lies.”

“That... _would_ be a change. I think I’m willing to give it a try.” He didn’t know her, couldn’t read her, especially in the dim lighting of a few flickering candles - but he thought she seemed intrigued. He kept his gaze on her face, on her eyes, willing his sincerity to show in his own.

“I meant what I said today. I will not be like my promiscuous peers—I’m pledged to you, and only you, until death parts us. If you’ll still have me.” He groped for her hand, found it, and brought it to his lips with a courtly kiss. “And if you’d do the same for me—well. ”

“My...” She let her hand fall slowly from his enfolding fingers, and he thought he saw a blush rise on her cheeks. “I didn’t expect that. I’ll... have to think about it.”

“Did... Do you have a... I apologize.” Pyrrhus scrubbed at his face with one hand, frustrated with his lack of eloquence. “If there’s someone else you’d rather be with... I would rather have a willing partner than a reluctant one, and I’d defy the Empress herself to protect that.”

“No, I don’t have a lover now. A while ago - but he went off with the Legions to the north and never returned.” She smiled—a small, sweet smile that made Pyrrhus’ heart skip a beat. “That’s exceptionally considerate of you. What would you have done if I...?”

“I hadn’t thought that far. I imagine we could have come up with an arrangement suited to both of us.”  He shrugged. “There’s one more thing... but before I speak of it, I have to know: can I trust you? Will you be my ally, at least? Can you—will you keep my secrets as you would your own? Even if we must separate one day?” The faintest red-coal glow traced along the red jade of his torc, illuminating the mouths of the dragon-head finials. A cool breeze stirred the ends of Angelline’s hair and made the candle flames flicker.

Angelline gazed searchingly into his eyes, her fingers curved against the skin of his hands as he held them out to her in supplication. Lightning flickered in the depths of her eyes, but Pyrrhus held steady, leaving his aura open to her inspection.

The moment stretched on until the silence would have been unnerving to someone else, but Pyrrhus, used to hours of silent meditation, grew more comfortable under the quiet of her contemplation. She was taking it seriously, which was more than he had expected or hoped for. Finally, she shifted back with a small sigh. “Yes, Lightbringer. I can see how important you hold this. You may be different, but it is a difference I can live with. You may trust me.”

“I... Thank you. I appreciate it.” Pyrrhus exhaled slowly, inexplicably deeply moved. He tugged at the torc around his throat and carefully removed it. “Just - hold it in mind things are not always what we are told they are. Hold on to what you’ve just learned, seeing me under that charm. And... don’t be afraid.”

“You are beginning to concern me. I’m not sure what to expect, Lightbringer.”

Pyrrhus managed a small wry twist of a smile, but he didn’t reply in words. He willed; felt the shimmer of essence as the glowing disc of his Caste mark appeared on his forehead, saw the light change on her face; gilding her in early morning sunlight though outside night was well advanced.

Angelline gasped, jerked backwards in atavistic reaction as if he had burned her, a knee drawing to her chest. She froze when frightened, he noted, watching her triphammer pulse under the skin of her neck, just above the collarbone. Then she raised her chin, tucked the edges of her robes closer around her and leaned forward; making an effort of will to drown her initial reaction. Pyrrhus could see the calculations beginning behind those deep-ice eyes. “Does your family...?”

“It’s not been explicitly said, but yes. At least, Grandmother knows.”

“You’re an Anathema.” A new measure of wariness had seeped into her voice and posture - but she hadn’t fled, or screamed, so he counted that a positive sign. She reached for him, touching the glittering caste mark with the tips of her outstretched fingers. Essence clung to the touch like pollen, briefly lining her fingers with gold before drifting away and disappearing.

“No. Demons and undead, Fae Folk and such are Anathema. I’m Exalted, like you... I was just Chosen by Sol Invictus, rather than an Immaculate Dragon.” He poured as much conviction into his voice as he could muster—he was no Anathema. He believed it, had to, to reconcile his own existence. He slid the torc back around his neck and his Caste mark vanished, replaced by the heat-wave shimmers of a Fire-Aspect Dragonblooded’s anima.

“I... see.” She relaxed, slightly, leaning back towards him. “And that artifact? Is that not an untruth?”

“It’s not ideal, certainly. I don’t like wearing it... but it does let others reach their own conclusions.” He twitched the necklace to settle it properly, the finials resting heavily on his collarbone.

“I am Iselsi. I am quite familiar with that sort of misdirection.” She seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, because she straightened and turned to him. “I don’t believe an Anathema would care so much about improving the lives of others—as you so obviously do. So—it will be our secret. You’re a Child of Hesiesh, as far as anyone else is concerned.”

Pyrrhus let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Giddiness rose up unexpectedly in the back of his throat and he nearly broke into hysterical laughter; containing it instead into a wide, entirely open grin. “Thank you, Lady Angelline.”

“I am your wife now. I think you may drop the honorifics. In fact,” and she slid closer to him, her thigh snugged against his, and made a lazy gesture encompassing the intimate setting. “Call me Lina—here.”

“Lina. As you wish. And I—Pyrrhus.”

“Pyrrhus.” She walked her fingers up his leg and hooked them into the sash of his belt, untying it with a few deft flicks. “Lie with me. After all the trouble V’neef has gone to, let’s not disappoint her.”

“My grandmother is the last person I really want to think about right now,” he admitted, squirming under her touch. “But—you still... After what I...?” It was getting progressively harder to think as she ‘helped’ him shed the layers of formal wear, especially as she’d already shed all of hers.

She answered him with a soft kiss that steadily deepened as he fumbled returning it. Her warm hands slid under the last wrapped tunic and across his bare chest, bunching the fabric down his back and around his elbows.

She let him up for air a few moments later. “I trust that answers your question.”

“Uhh...” Thoroughly scorched, Pyrrhus could only nod, absently working the tunic off his arms.  He got one free and then the other in quick succession before she could coax him to his feet, capturing one of her wandering hands in his. “Lina—”

“Ah, I see the dragon has woken,” she murmured, shifting against him. Pyrrhus moaned into her shoulder as her hands escaped and slid down his sides, his thighs, dragging the loose-cut trousers with them and leaving behind tingling trails of sensation.  

“The dragon has been awake for a while now,” he confessed. And the dragon, once woken, _wanted_ , desired her so deeply it was nearly painful.

He was still male; still possessed of urges like any other. But he was also a being of iron-willed self control, hard-won over years. The dragon may have _wanted_ before, but it had _never_ been given leave to pursue its desires. He was married now. It was permissible. He could...

He touched her, gingerly, as though she were a bird to fly away or a shell-thin porcelain figurine; his sword-callused fingertips traced across her collarbones to the tops of her shoulders. The thin mist silk robe fell into a puddle with his own clothing.  “Sun in Heaven, but you are lovely...”

A door banged open—or was blown off its hinges—somewhere downstairs; in a house full of drunk celebrating Dynasts, either was likely.

The pair startled apart, Pyrrhus turning to rise and meet a threat while raucous laughter and hoarse cheers rang out below. Essence burned in his fists for a half second before he let go and sighed relief. No threat. His trousers were sagging ridiculously around his knees thanks to Lina’s work; he kicked them off before they tripped him and gave her a small, slow smile.

“I… ah. Heh. I have trained in little more than this,” he said, gesturing downward at himself, “and yet never felt quite so vulnerable.”

“Entirely normal, for one’s first time with a new partner.” She took his hands and drew him back down to the bed. “You have nothing to worry about with me, Pyrrhus.”

“The voice of experience speaks?”

“You are not my first, husband,” she said, tilting her head. “Does that bother you?”

“…No. It might have, if I’d made any plans of marriage. But I never expected to… to be here.” He hadn’t let go of her hand, and now he drew it to his lips, pressing a kiss on the back of her fingers. “Now… I am simply glad that one of us knows what they are doing.”

“I trust you know where all the pieces go, at least?” Lina said, sliding closer and pushing him gently back down into the cushions of the bed. Pyrrhus let her, eyes fixed on her face.

“In theory—”

“Then let us put your theory into practice.”

“There’s still guests downstairs—”

Lina sighed, flicked her hair back over her shoulder and sat up straight. With the strongest voice he’d heard her make yet, she began moaning and crying out, sounding like a woman thoroughly and loudly enjoying herself. Pyrrhus had been on the fringes of enough parties as a young man, before the Order, to recognize _that_ sound. She pitched it so that even someone in the great hall would have been able to hear her.

Despite the fact she was obviously and clearly faking for effect, watching him with a smug expression that didn’t match her voice at all, the sound was doing interesting things to the rest of him. He struggled to sit up more and hissed, “Lina—!”

She put a finger against his lips for silence.

More laughter erupted from outside the suite and downstairs, including some voices that were entirely too close to his door than he was comfortable with. Panic surged up into his throat for and clutched at his breath—had they heard, earlier, too?

“Ride her good, monk!”

“Plow that Iselsi bitch!”

“Didn’t think the Immaculate had it in him—”

Footsteps in the hall mingled with the general lewd conversations and walked away, rejoining the more general laughter and merriment in the great hall down below. Pyrrhus began breathing again.

“There,” Lina said in her normal, quiet voice. “They’ll leave you be, now. Curious; none of them used your name.”

“I know none of them.” His ‘friends’… well, he could imagine one or two lingering outside his door for a laugh at his expense, but most of them had left much earlier, as in danger by their nature as he was.

“V’neef’s witnesses, then.”

“They shouldn’t have spoken about you like that,” he said, insulted on her behalf. She’d chosen to join with him, now, and he’d defend her as such. Lina simply shook her head and soothed him back down onto the bed.

“It’s the curse of my House; nothing I have not heard before.”

“It is no excuse—”

“You are sweet, to try and champion me so.” She leaned over, her hair falling across both of them, and kissed him. Her bare breasts brushed his chest and Pyrrhus’ attention returned immediately and completely to his wife. _His wife!_ “Shall we practice, Pyrrhus?”

“Oh…” He reached up to her, cupping her face in his hands—so much darker against her—and leaned into the next kiss. Lina smiled and ascended the bed—and him. “Yes…”

He let go of the stranglehold on his self-control, his mind going pleasantly blank as she settled herself astride him. Her touch on his flanks was so warm she might as well have been a Fire-Aspect, not Air, and the smoothness of her porcelain skin on him was enough to bring the dragon back to full throbbing alertness once again.

The tightness building in his groin was almost painful and very familiar, and as Lina arranged herself, sliding smoothly against him, he groaned. “Lina— I… ah… it’s been a long time since even—”

“I assumed,” Lina said. “Relax, Lightbringer.”

He couldn’t, exactly, not with the dragon’s kindled desire flooding him even as she rocked her hips, his lifting to meet hers entirely involuntarily. But he made the effort to let his thoughts be subsumed by simply _being_ , instead. He bit down on a moan—he would give no one outside the satisfaction of overhearing his deflowering, to mock and ridicule—and fisted his hands in the sheets as she kept moving, kept drawing him up with her.

“See, your body knows the way,” Lina murmured. She coaxed his hands from the fabric with gentle touches, drawing them up and placing them just so at her waist. He was transfixed; he couldn’t take his eyes from her, so beautifully and gloriously nude. The dragon was frustrated—it wanted more, it wanted to touch more—but Pyrrhus held back with habitual control, leaving the lead to Lina.

She might have divined his thoughts, because after only a moment or two more she rose up a little and brought the dragon home.

She enveloped him, completed him, and soul-deep satisfaction rolled up his spine, tipped his head back and escaped his throat in gratified sound. All those bardic songs and writings about the romance of a home, of going to a place and finding comfort and peace—they all made sense now. His Second Breath at the hands of Sol Invictus had suffused every disparate piece of his existence and fused them into one molten whole; surely this was the mortal equivalent.

And rightness hummed through him in that moment of sheathing saturated heat until he thought he might combust.

“Wait, Lina—” He held her still when she would have started moving again, his hands on her hips. “Give me a moment. Please.”

“Is it alright?” She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his ribs, and even that small movement inflamed the pleasant anticipation, lapping at the edge he didn’t want to tip over just yet. He hissed through his teeth, trying to calm a little.

“It’s incredible,” he said, smiling broadly. “It’s just… new.”

“Oh, if that’s all.” Lina rolled her hips and ground against him, making him gasp out a breath of protest and pleasure both. She was watching his face, and he wondered if she knew how close she drove him just then. He didn’t know her well enough to guess.

He sat up, wrapping his arms around her and shifting as he did so they remained together. Her chest was suddenly that much closer to his face, and he dropped a very light kiss on the skin there. She was still rocking her hips slowly, just enough to make his grasp on language even more tenuous. “Wait—Ah. I know the end goal is…to, ah…”

“Get you off?” She said, running her fingertips up his chest. One of her painted nails flicked over the bump of his nipple—on purpose, he thought, catching the tiny quirk of her grin—and sent a wash of not altogether pleasant sensation through him, like fluttering moths under his skin.

“Well, I suppose that’s the first step, yes.” If all his blood weren’t fully occupied elsewhere, some might have been making his face redder. He caught her hands before she could do it again. “But…ah. I meant—We’re not breeding stock. Show me how to make it pleasant for you, too?”

There was more he meant to convey; thoughts that refused to properly coalesce into elegant phrases somewhere beyond the primal _need_ below his navel. _Please don’t rush it_ was one of them, tangled up with _Am I hateful after all—to hurry and get it over with_ and _let me please you—ally with you—take away the bitter taste of dynastic scheming—_

Lina leaned back away for a moment, her expression shifting from something puckish to something far more contemplative. She freed a hand and touched his cheek, hesitant. “It really is your first time, isn’t it?”

“I don’t lie. Didn’t lie.”

She did something, then, squeezed muscles around him that made him gasp again and grab at the bed for support. “Then do not worry about me, Pyrrhus. There will be plenty of time for you to learn.”

And then he had no more time to worry, because Lina pushed him, once more, back down into the overabundance of pillows. She rode him, lifting up and down steadily as though he were a horse at the trot, and with the way his body instinctively followed her it was not an unfair comparison. He’d had enough time to come down from the brink, and to adjust to the (new, incredible) sensation, that her movements did not immediately cause him to embarrass himself. Pyrrhus had enough pride to want to last at least a little while.

Lina leaned over him, changing the angle, and Pyrrhus breathed out relief as tension he hadn’t realized he was holding drained out. She fit to him _perfectly._ He braced his legs and let his hands roam over her, stroking her back, her sides, down to the curve of her hips.

The idea this… stranger, essentially, was exchanging with him the gift of her body. His body. Bodies. It left him a little awestruck. And the last of the wine in his blood made everything a little warm and blurred around the edges; if it weren’t for the fact he never dreamt so intensely he would have asserted it was one.

Her hair fell over the both of them as she tipped her head down, kissing his neck all the way up to the curve of his jaw. Her breath on his skin, and the quiet sigh of a moan she voiced, sent a thrill of feeling down his spine to join the rest. “Oh—Aah!”

“Liked that, did you?” She murmured, and and moaned again—quietly, far more sincerely than the show she’d put on for the eavesdroppers only a little while before.

“I like _you_ ,” Pyrrhus replied thickly. “I like what we’re doing, together.”

Seized by a thousand years of mortal instinct, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled, trapping her beneath him. His torc thumped hollowly against his collarbone, barely noticed. Lina squeaked surprise and it was a good sound too, especially since she wrapped her legs around his hips as he went. He hid his face in her shoulder and breathed in her fine white hair, biting down on a moan.

“Don’t—” Lina said, encouraging him onward with her heels dug into the back of his thighs. “Don’t _stop_ , Lightbringer—”

“Hmm!,” was his only reply, obeying and rocking them back and forth with long slow strokes which seemed best. It was easier to stay on this side of the precipice when he was the one setting the pace.

She arched against him, dragging her hands up over the curve of his head, drawing loose and disheveling his carefully plaited queue. But the way her breasts brushed against him as she hummed pleasure overwhelmed any irritation at loose hair. He bent his head to kiss her, following the delicate line of her jaw and neck all the way down to skim over her breast.

Lina sighed loud encouragement, her hands in his hair dragging him further down. Pyrrhus huffed out a breath and hesitated. “Really?”

“Really,” she assured him with a wriggle and lift of her hips that made him gasp again. “With teeth, even. Lightly. Have you _never_ been to a Cynis party?”

He ignored the question as rhetorical or at minimum irrelevant, and kissed her breast, scraping his teeth over the delicate skin. She arched and moaned, her fingers tightening in his queue. He drew back slightly, worried. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No, you’re doing _fine_ , for a monk,” she said. “Keep going.”

“I may be a monk—” he said. Her nipples were already standing up as he bent his head to her breast again, taking her into his mouth and sucking, gently. She sighed in pleasure and he continued, “But I am still a man.”

Lina simply moaned, a sly smile tugging at her lips, and the sound went directly to his groin. Pyrrhus abruptly found himself much closer to the edge of the precipice and pressed his face into her chest. She was murmuring something to him, her hands stroking through his hair (now thoroughly and completely unbound), across his shoulders, down his back—but he barely heard.

The rhythm he’d set began to unravel; the tension coiled in his belly driving for release at its own quicker pace. Lina encouraged him, with her back arched and her voice at his ears, pressed into his skin. It urged movement, urged a change he didn’t have words to find until he slid arms under her back and lifted, pulling them both upright, him on his knees beneath her.

Lina settled deeper against his groin, her arms around his neck, and Pyrrhus let a small, quiet breathy moan escape him as they began moving together again. He felt like a fire aspect in this moment, burning beneath his skin and sweat making it slick. He has to work harder, moving both of them, but it was a good kind of exertion, and he is—not boasting—rather stronger than most, with the spark of the sun coursing in his veins.

“Lina—” he warned, but it turned into a mantra into her skin, as he approached the precipice, half over the edge already.

“Come, then,” Lina breathed into his ear, and followed it with one of those moans again.

 “Lina—oh, _gods_ —”

The pressure of aching pleasure released like a breached dam, like the lighting of his anima fires, like a desperate prayer.

For several heartbeats, Pyrrhus’ mind went perfectly blank in complete sun-soaked bliss, his body jerking automatically without him as they sank slowly back down to the bed.

He blinked, came back to himself in a slow floating rise—ah. No. So _that_ is as close as mortals get to Exaltation, he thought, staring uncomprehendingly at the ceiling as the tremors and spasms of pleasure’s aftershocks went through them.

She had her hands in his hair again, stroking gently through the disheveled queue, murmured something he couldn’t make out over the ringing in his ears. Every nerve is a fire, every touch of her and the world around him magnified with so much pleasant sensation it almost crosses over into pain. It’s only after she let go, tapping gently on his shoulders, that he realizes his arms are locked tight across her back.

“Ah, I’m—apologies,” Pyrrhus said, once he dredged words and willed motion from the depths of his mind into someplace it could be made use of again.  He forced his arms to release their locked muscles and withdrew with a muffled gasp.

Lina sat up and kissed him, quick and deep, before sliding off his lap to lay in a boneless sprawl across the bed. “There is _nothing_ to be sorry for, husband. Come here.”

He let her coax him down into a supine sprawl and twitched one of the light blankets across his hips to quell the faint nagging of guilt in the back of his mind. _Married,_ he told it. _It’s allowed._ Normal sensation returned to him in pieces as his heart slowed, heat still pouring from him in a way which has nothing to do with the torc around his neck and everything to do with the white-haired Lady beside him.

“Thank you,” he murmured into Lina’s hair sometime later. Her head was cradled in the hollow of his shoulder, the paleness of her even more striking against his own darker complexion. The aftermath had made him feel heavy and slow, as though he were underwater when he moved to stroke her hair.

His wife shifted, draping a leg over his and letting her hand roam slowly down his chest. “It was my pleasure, husband,” she replied lazily, her fingers sliding even lower. “Let’s do it again.”

 


End file.
